


avant-goût

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cooking, F/M, I can't stop writing these two, Therapy Years, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 08:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16783639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “I don’t want it to be wonderful. I want it to be perfect.” She does not wish to give her family any more reasons to disapprove of her than they already have; she knows if anyone can relate to her strive for ideal, it is Hannibal.“I was hoping you could help me with the dinner," she forces herself to look at him.





	avant-goût

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caissa/gifts).



It is not like her, allowing a personal matter to overshadow her professional demeanour.

Hands resting calmly on her lap, Bedelia attempts to focus on her patient’s words, but her mind keeps slipping away, pulling her attention with it. It is a foolish concern, she knows it well, but her thoughts wander stubbornly, returning to the task she set out for herself. Hannibal’s voice trails off as he waits for her opinion and Bedelia reaches for her pen, trying to disguise her missed prompting. He does not comment on her brief loss of footing, keeping to his assigned role, temporary constricted by the limited space of his chair. But Bedelia knows this will change swiftly once the hour is up and the wine is poured.

Perhaps it will make voicing her request easier. She doubts it.

“Is there something on your mind, Doctor?” he asks, as she has predicted, before the wine finishes settling in the ball of his glass.

Putting the bottle away, Bedelia inhales slowly, playing for time, but realising her distracted attention has betrayed her so time ago.

“My family is coming to visit next week,” she explains, taking her own glass, a useful prop she can focus on.

Hannibal nods pensively, knowing her enough to be aware that it is not something she looks forward to.

“It is all right if you need to reschedule our session,” he says instead, ever so practical.

The corner of Bedelia’s mouth twitches in silent amusement; she wishes that was her only consideration here.

“No, the visit will not interfere with our appointment,” she says curtly, taking a tentative sip of her wine.

“Is there something the matter then?” Hannibal presses on, evident worry in his voice, but curiosity burning brighter in his eyes.

“I will be hosting a dinner for them,” she slowly edges to her point.

“Oh,” Hannibal startles then smiles at her with fresh interest, “What a treat.”

He has always wanted to see her sited behind his dining room table; the idea of her on the other side of the dinner experience is novel and clearly exciting to him.

“That is to be seen,” Bedelia hesitates again.

“I am certain it will be a wonderful evening,” he asserts, never doubting her talents, regardless of what they are applied to.

“I don’t want it to be wonderful. I want it to be _perfect_.” She does not wish to give her family any more reasons to disapprove of her than they already have; she knows if anyone can relate to her strive for ideal, it is Hannibal.

She sets her almost untouched glass aside, bracing herself for the next question.

“I was hoping you could help me with the dinner,” she forces herself to look at him.

A look of surprise flashes in Hannibal’s eyes; whatever he was expecting, it was not that. Bedelia herself was having doubts about asking for his help, but in her internal struggle between a less than satisfying meal and her pride, she has chosen the lesser evil.

“What are you planning to serve?” he asks simply.

“I was thinking of beef tenderloin,” she replies, her mind feeling clearer now that the question no longer tangles in her thoughts.

Hannibal nods in appreciation. “And the starter?”

“Prosciutto and melon.” A rather simple option, she is conscious of that, definitely not worthy of an experienced chef like Hannibal, but, to her surprise, he smiles widely.

“That is an excellent choice,” he observes, “I don’t think you need my help, Doctor, but I would be more than happy to assist you. In _any way_ possible.”

Bedelia reaches back for her glass and tries to ignore his last remark, focusing on the challenge ahead.

“Thank you,” she offers him a gentle smile of gratitude.

“Do you need any help with obtaining the supplies?” he asks at once, “I know an excellent butcher.”

“No, that will not be necessary, I have already taken care of that,” she has ensured all the ingredients will be the freshest quality, “But thank you for the offer.”

If he is disappointed, he does not show it, the prospect of assisting her with dinner filling him with palpable elation.

“When is your family coming?” he returns to the specifics,

“Saturday evening.”

“I will be here Saturday afternoon,” he seals the deal with a raise of his glass and a mouthful of the wine.

Raising her own glass, Bedelia hopes she will not regret her decision _too much_.

The ticking clock traces the slow progress of time, bringing her closer to arrival of Hannibal. Bedelia stands in middle of the kitchen, once again assessing the selection of ingredients and utensils laid out neatly on the counter. She feels unusually nervous; she has purposely shifted the dynamic of their relationship by acknowledging his superior skills and put herself in a vulnerable position in the process. It is just a favour, she reassures herself to no avail. At least her concern about her family’s coming is pushed away for the moment, a faint conciliation. The doorbell rings at the exact hour and Bedelia takes a deep breath before making her way to the hallway.

“Good afternoon,” Hannibal beams at her from the threshold, looking like a boy on Christmas day, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Hello, Hannibal,” she steps aside, allowing him to enter, “Thank you again for doing this.”

She guides him towards the kitchen before he gets a chance to respond, but his wide smile remains imprinted in her mind. Hannibal follows her swiftly, seeming more at ease at her home that she feels at present. Bedelia enters the kitchen and senses him pausing a few steps behind her. She turns to find his eyes scrutinising the room, like an explorer conquering a new territory and she suddenly becomes self-aware of the space. The kitchen is large and well-equipped, but she has never made much use of it, making it seem still and hollow. Whatever his conclusions are, they remain unuttered, but she notices another smile slowly blooming on his lips. He steps in without further delay and helps himself to the apron she left out on the counter for that very purpose. She watches as he removes his jacket and places it aside before putting the apron around his waist in one fluid motion. He ties it with a surgeon’s precision, levelled strips of fabric combined in a perfect bow, as if he were preparing for an operating procedure. And in a way, he is. Bedelia joins him, taking her own apron with certain hesitation; even on her first day of medical school she did not feel this timid.

“May I?” Hannibal asks before walking further in.

“Of course,” Bedelia ties the apron more slowly than necessary while Hannibal strolls around her kitchen, perfectly at home.

It is fascinating to watch, she concludes; perhaps turning the afternoon into a learning opportunity will lessen her unease.

“We should start with the meat. It needs time to roast,” Hannibal rests his hands on the counter, tracing its surface, smooth to his touch, once again reminding Bedelia of a clinical setting.

Maybe it is a sign of his own nervousness, an unexpected notion springs into her mind. It is not like Hannibal to be apprehensive. But it is not every day she invites him into her home for something other than a therapy session. The thoughts gnaw at her mind as she watches him unroll the foil covering the beef resting on the plate, but keeping his own thoughts hidden. Hannibal inspects the meat she seasoned and tied the night before, making her own agitation overshadow any assumptions of Hannibal’s. She spent an extra long time ensuring the intervals on the meat were even and the twine was secured. She should not care for his approval, but she cannot help but feel relieved when he sets it down with an approving smile.

“I know roasted beef tenderloin dries out if not cooked properly,” she says, standing next to him.

“Yes, but this is a great start,” he confirms, unbuttoning his sleeves and starting to roll them up.

Bedelia tries not to stare but her eyes keep darting to his agile fingers and the muscled forearms coming to view. Whatever hope she had for a research like approach, it has now been lost completely.

“I personally like to prepare it raw,” he smooths the evenly rolled-up fabric and looks back at her, hopefully not noticing her distracted gaze springing back up with a start, “But it is not to everyone’s liking.”

“No, my parents would not like it,” she feels distracted still, her stubborn stare now assessing the perfect fit of his shirt over his broad shoulders.

“We should sear it first then. It helps to yield a brown crust and a tender centre,” he concludes, but waits for her to retrieve the skillet pan, assigning himself the modest role of sous chef.

Bedelia is grateful to have something else to focus on as she starts the burner and pours the oil into the pan. The oil heats quickly and she slowly places the piece of meat on the hot surface; it sizzles immediately. She can sense Hannibal standing behind her, the warmth of his body noticeable even next to the scorching pan. A hand offers her a set of tongs and she takes it rather abruptly, still unsettled by the strange sensation of having him so close to her. The meat hisses erratically, mirroring the sudden increase in her heartbeat, unexpectedly swelling in her throat without an apparent reason. She watches as though from a distance as the pink beef turns brown in an instant; the tongs in her hand remain suspended over the pan but she is unsure of the precise moment the meat should be turned before it burns too much. Hannibal’s hand reaches out once more, this time resting on top of hers and gently guiding her grip in turning the piece over. The beef sizzles anew as the raw side touches the burning oil.

“Give it the same time on all sides but one,” his voice reverberates against the top of her head as the hand abandons hers with certain reluctance, fingertips brushing over her skin as he does so.

Bedelia senses a tremor under her skin, but she holds the tongs steadily, focusing her fading attention on the pan.

“What sauce are looking to prepare?” he asks, appraising the other ingredients on the counter.

“Wine sauce,” she managed to say, her voice not as decisive as she would like it to be.

She watches from the corner of her eye as Hannibal unwraps the butter and slices it into chunks before placing it into a pan. His gestures are precise and sharp, quite enticing to watch; Bedelia has to make an effort to focus her eyes back on the meat before it burns, rendering this whole effort pointless. She turns it to another side like instructed, just as Hannibal returns to stand by her side and placing his pan on the second burner. The butter begins to melt, adding another inviting smell to the air; Hannibal stirs it with practised ease, adding herbs and spices with a gentle flourish of his hand, nothing more than a basic errand for him, still he tends to it with care. The wine is finally poured, heady aroma reaching Bedelia’s nostrils; it adds to the sensation of haziness covering Bedelia’s mind and pulling her away from her task.

She wonders if Hannibal feels it too, the shift in the air between them, like static electric charges before a storm. Their arms are almost touching, but, after the brief contact, he keeps his distance at all time now, giving her space, perhaps feeling like he has overstepped his role before. It is almost _disappointing_ , Bedelia finds, as the feel of his fingers still lingers on her skin.

“I believe the meat is ready for the oven,” his voice almost startles her, a welcome awakening from her foolish daydreaming.

She pulls her thoughts back together while she carefully transfers the skillet to the oven. There is a reason behind this endeavour and she should keep her emotions in check as confusing as they seem.

Hannibal reduces the heat on the sauce, letting it simmer slowly. They suddenly find themselves standing in front of each other without a purpose as the meal is left to cook; the pause is not unpleasant. Their new dance has established its rhythm so easily and even this feels like a part of its natural flow. Only now Bedelia notices that the kitchen has grown warmer, the space now longer giving an impression of emptiness, and it has nothing to do with the oven. Her previous unease has evaporated as well, somewhere alongside the steam of the wine.

She glances at the clock and decides it is not too early to start preparing the appetisers. Her gestures seem more assertive as she retrieves the cured meat and fruit from the fridge. Hannibal takes out plates and sets them in front of her as she halves the melons and removes the seeds. But when she starts to divide them into segments, she senses Hannibal shifting next to her uncertainly.

“May I suggest something?” he asks with caution as if not wanting to unsettle her.

Bedelia looks at him, more curious now than apprehensive, and secretly craving another display of his skills. She hands the knife over to him and steps to the side, giving him centre stage. Hannibal takes the knife and one of the melon slices, then cuts it in into thinner wedges. He lays the wedge down and slices it with the tip of the knife from the peel out to the thin edge, creating comb like effect. He does the same with another piece. The finished wedges are placed gently on the plate, back to back, the cuts opening like a beautiful feather.

“That’s beautiful,” she stares at the arrangement, amazed how he turned something so simple into something so alluring.

Hannibal smiles almost timidly, pleased with her approval, as though he has merely made a minor improvement, not transformed the dish entirely. He gives her the knife back and returns to his role of sous chef, arranging the slices of prosciutto over the melon display. Bedelia hesitates for a brief moment but shakes off the feeling at once; his confidence in her has managed to lift her own. She takes another slice of melon and follows Hannibal’s steps. Soon a second feather appears on a place.

“I always knew you would make an excellent surgeon,” he comments, watching her slice the melon with precision, “But it seems you could have easily employed your skills to becoming a chef.”

“Cheap flattery? Really, Hannibal?” she pauses her work to give him a judging stare, but there is shadow of a smile playing about her lips.

“I am merely stating the truth, Bedelia,” the tone of his voice is most serious, but the smile on his lips mirrors the shy one on hers.

There is a tiny shiver passing under her skin at the sound of her name leaving his lips. It is like a secret incantation, making their usual boundaries disappear. They are no longer just patient and doctor, but they aren’t colleagues either; Bedelia finds no name for them, at least not one she is ready to admit to.

She is relieved when he turns away to the fridge, not seeing her slightly flushed skin. She does not question when he returns with strawberries and kiwis. He slices them into pieces and adds to the feather decoration on the plates, taking time to glance at her every now and then, smiling. He is clearly enjoying his time here with her. And so is she.

The last slice of melon is arranged on the plate and Hannibal tops it with the meat and a finishing touch of fruits. Bedelia has never devoted much time to cooking, treating it more like a necessity than pleasure, but she might start to enjoy it now, she concludes, looking at the perfect display in front of her. The warmth spreads further, settling deep in her core.

“I believe the roast is ready,” Hannibal’s voice disturbs the warmth, again reminding Bedelia of the purpose of them being here.

He takes the dish out of the oven, the inviting smell of perfectly prepared meat now suffusing the air.

“It is better to let it settle for a moment before you remove the foil,” Hannibal puts the roast on the cooling rack and turns off the sauce, “I am sure you can take it from here.” He turns to look at her, his smile coloured sad that their time is drawing to a close. “Unless you are planning for dessert,” a faint flicker of hope passes through his gaze.

“No, my sister is bringing dessert. She insisted,” she admits, her own spark suddenly dimmed as well.

“I am sure it will pale comparing to the dinner you prepared,” he attempts to praise her again, sensing her continuous discomfort with the fast approaching evening.

“ _We_ prepared,” she corrects him at once, regret that they will not get to share this meal together brewing within her. She could imagine spending a wonderful evening with Hannibal, as comfortable and warm as their afternoon. Perhaps even more so.

Alas, the plans have already been made and she needs to follow through on them.

“I was merely assisting,” Hannibal states, modest to the end, and takes off the apron, pulling the sleeves of his shirt back in place as though adjusting his person suit in process before he steps outside.

Her own apron is laid next to his like strange tokens of their time together. She walks him towards the door, somehow hesitant, regretting that their afternoon has come to an end. It was an unforeseen treat, sharing the kitchen with him, one she suspects she would grow accustom to quite quickly. The key to a successful dance is a perfect partner. But now she pushes the notions away, trying to brace herself for the arrival of her family.

“Thank you again, Hannibal,” she says as they pause by the entrance, “I hope I will be able to repay you the favour.”

“There is no need. It was my _pleasure_ ,” he insists, “I would still, however, love an opportunity to cook for you. Or perhaps you can cook for me,” he adds with an excited gleam in his eyes.

Bedelia smiles back at him, the idea now as thrilling for her as it is for him. She wonders what else they could teach other; she looks forward to finding out.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by kmo ♥ Thank you so much!  
> The melon peacock was featured in season 3/ Florence arc; the recipe can be found in "Feeding Hannibal". It is one of my favourite meals there, easy but so impressive looking, I had to use it here. The title means foretaste in French.
> 
> Thank you for still reading, I appreciate it more than you know!


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